The Hobo

He sits lackadaisically ‘neath the tall tree
What a cantankerous old man, he’s turned out to be
With his handlebar moustache, which he twirls at the end

And with a lascivious glint he ogles the maids
Adorned in a vest, of brocade
With his long stemmed pipe sending vapors to the sky

Algorithms rein in, his roaming mind
As clandestine thoughts develop, which are not so kind
While his bowler hat sits, on his shiny dome

Allusions of grandeur were his only dreams
Gregarious by nature, he sought out parties in extremes
Now he sits in his worn-out tweed pants, with patches on their knees

A life of a nomadic, this is what is he leads
A scarab amulet on his arm, the gods … have decreed
The soles of his shoes having holes worn through